The Beast Made of Ink

Chapter 11: Y/N's Story (Part 1)

-Y/N's P.O.V.-

My first memory was that of a kind woman's face, her rigid wrinkles crinkling in affection at the sight of me. I still remember the days of homemade mac n' cheese and never-ending tummy tickles only vaguely, but despite this, I knew that I loved the woman deeply.

Maybe that's why one of my strongest memories was that of her funeral, my tears hidden as the skies cries covered my own weeping sorrow.

I was only 3 at the time, but I understood what death was. The older woman had taught me of it since my mother had died while giving birth to me. I had found out of my mothers death by chance, and instead of denying it, the old woman calmly sat me in her lap and explained everything so I could understand.

That's why I was so sad. Because despite me being only 3 years old, I understood what it meant when somebody dies. When somebody dies, you can never see them again, and I knew that I would never see her again. I would never see my Grandmother again.

The knowledge broke my tiny heart into two, but that break was nothing compared to what that man did.

It was at the funeral where I first met the man. He was much taller than me, black hair tousled across his head as stubble and bags adjourned his tired and annoyed face. He had deep brown eyes, that despite the warmth in which usually would emit from such a pair, only seemed to radiate coldness, leaving whoever made eye contact with him stuck in the never-ending blizzard of his grief and agony over the loss of his soulmate.

It was those eyes that met his little girls at the funeral that day, my H/C swaying in the wind as my innocent and pure E/C stared into his experienced and dead own.

I think that's when I knew, that's when I first realized that he was simply a broken man.

It was shortly after our first meeting that the blame began. He first blamed me for small things, like using up all the toilet paper or tracking mud into the house, but soon after, those small things became bigger things, as he told me that I was to blame for my mothers death, and that I was a curse in which was born to only cause despair. His most favorite nickname for me was "reaper", because I reaped the life out of everything I touched.

By the time I was 4, I found myself beaten and broken. I felt worthless from the year of mental abuse, and I had reached the point to where every word he said I could believe. He didn't lie after all, not that man. I think that's when I found my heart completely shattered. He started locking me in a dark closet, and stopped doing it when I was 5.

Because I was 5 when he first hit me. He was drunk and I had accidentally left a toy downstairs that caused him to slip. That night he went up to my bedroom and beat me till I could barely breathe, slurring names and screeching reaper at the top of his lungs as he kicked and punched until I was nothing more than a bloody and bruised bag of flesh. Guess he found beating me more entertaining than the closet. After that, the physical abuse became more often than the mental stuff, but it still seemed to affect my mentality just as bad.

When I started school, he started drinking all the time. I found the bruises to be placed in less visible areas of my body, and I always was forced to wear long sleeves and pants to hide the marks. I believe it was around that time when the man started playing the game with me, the game that he so favorably called "Reverse Break a' Bottle", where he'd chuck his empty beer bottles at my legs, laughing all the while. It stung like a bitch when he first cut me, but the more I found the scars piling up on my legs, the more I found myself disconnecting from the pain.